


Perfect Curling Cursive

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Comment Fic 2016 [118]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Other, Surprise Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8671741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Harry Potter, any/any, a letter appears by their plate every morning but they can't figure out who it's from."Fred keeps getting notes. Until they stop.





	

Every morning at breakfast in the Great Hall, a note appeared beside Fred’s plate. Small, folded, written in perfect curling cursive.  
  
 _You have beautiful eyes.  
  
I like your smile.  
  
Just seeing you makes me happy.  
  
I’m just a little bit in love with you._  
  
Fred had never told anyone about the notes, not even George, never shown them to anyone. They were his and his alone. He tried going to breakfast early and leaving late, but he never caught the sender of the notes, because they materialized beside his plate at the same time every morning, rain or shine.  
  
They made him smile.  
  
The first time he read the word _love_ , he was terrified and elated. He’d tried writing back, casting a _Return to Sender_ spell, but it had never worked.  
  
Not every note was romantic fluff, though. Sometimes they were observations about magic (E _ver notice how the epis- class of healing spells makes your hands tingle when you cast?_ ) or analyses of a recently-pulled prank (T _he charm-work on those self-levitating shoes was nothing short of brilliant_ ).  
  
Fred suspected that whoever the sender was, the sender had to be in at least the same Year as him, if not the same House, for knowing the details of the pranks he and George played and what he was studying in classes.  
  
 _You’re fantastic on a broom._  
  
Fred’s mystery admirer was at least something of a quidditch fan, for having seen him fly even though there was no quidditch this year. Fred wondered if his mystery admirer was another quidditch player. That would be fun.  
  
Sometimes the notes were touched with melancholy that made Fred ache to find his mystery lover and tug her - or him - into a warm embrace, reassure them all would be well.  
  
 _Some days I don’t think I can do this. But then I look at you and all you can do and think that maybe I am a fraction as capable as you._  
  
After the Yule Ball, the note read, _Wish I could’ve danced with you._  
  
Fred collected the notes, hoarded them like precious gold in his trunk in a magicked pocket not even George or Ginny could get into.  
  
And then the notes stopped coming. The day after the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament, there was no note.  
  
The entire school was in shock. Voldemort, risen from the dead. Cedric Diggory, murdered. A Death Eater impersonating their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Of course there was no note.  
  
But as the days unfolded, there were no more notes, and no more notes, and still no notes, and Fred wondered. Was his mystery admirer a Slytherin? Slytherins could admire pranks and quidditch skills. People were upset and afraid. Maybe Fred’s mystery admirer was a muggle born and extra afraid. Hermione wasn’t afraid, but she was a little bit insane.  
  
The notes had stopped altogether. Were done.

Fred couldn’t help but wonder if he’d offended his mystery admirer somehow, and then he was angry, because if he’d caused offense, well, if he didn’t know who his admirer was, how was he supposed to apologize?  
  
He gathered up all the notes, determined to destroy them, because they didn’t matter. He didn’t know who they were from, and he’d never find out, and they might as well not have happened at all.  
  
He was on his way to the dungeons to pick up some especially incendiary potion ingredients when he crashed right into Cho Chang.  
  
She looked like she’d been crying. She always looked like she’d been crying these days. She hiccupped and sobbed, and Fred saw she’d dropped all her books.  
  
He sighed and knelt her collect them, and then he saw, tucked into one of her textbooks, a piece of parchment. With very, very familiar handwriting on it.  
  
His throat closed. Cho was his admirer?  
  
It made sense. She was a quidditch player, not a Slytherin, and her father was muggle-born, and she’d been good friends with Diggory, who was dead. Of course she was sad. Devastated.  
  
“Are - are you all right?” Fred tried for gentle but his voice came out husky.  
  
Cho sniffled. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking, Weasley.”  
  
“You can call me Fred,” he said. “Erm - doing some extra study in the potions lab, were you?”  
  
Cho shrugged. “Yeah. Study makes me feel better. And -” She sniffled, and she patted the piece of parchment Fred had seen. “Cedric let me borrow his notes, and when I look at them, I -”  
  
She burst into tears.  
  
Fred stared at her. “Cedric. Diggory. Shared his school notes with you?”  
  
Cho nodded.  
  
Of course. The day after the Third Task. The notes had stopped.  
  
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Fred choked out.  
  
He turned and hurried up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower. When he got back to the sixth year boys’ dorms, he flung himself on his bed and drew his curtains and locked them, and then he took every single note out of the pouch and reread them, and he hurt so much he couldn’t even cry.


End file.
